Museo de la Memoria

People wondered down the alleyway that is nestled between the cathedral and tourist center heads gazed above as the black and white photos hung from light post to light post each portrait a victim of the argentine dictatorship. I stumbled upon this place by accident the day before. My good friend Maria and I were out exploring the city. We had heard that there was an underground Jesuit passage that laid under the main plaza of San Martin. Although successfully finding the entranceway we had arrived late and it was closed to our disappointment. On the left sat a building full of archives; I asked the women at the desk front where I might be able to come across some papers about the dictatorship. She began to draw me a little map out on a scrap of paper. Although I had crossed the Plaza of San Martin millions of times I had never stumbled across the museo de la memoria (the museum of the memory). The museum was closed by the time that we arrived but the office was still open. I explained to the women at the front desk about my 15 page paper I had written for school about the dictatorship and how I was looking to add to the paper. She looked at me with surprise; why was a 16 year old girl from the states investigating upon this touchy subject. And with her face full of curiosity followed her question that I could tell was already on her mind. I explained that I thought it was important for my society to know how our government had played a roll to assist the dictatorship and the ramifications of our foreign policy in Latin America. With my response a new sense of hospitality swept over she invited me to come back Thursday when new photographs would be hung. The next day I called two friends from school that had helped me a lot on the subject. Thursday we met on the cathedral steps, and shortly latter our eyes two where gazing up at the black and white photographs hung from light post to light post. The museum was a old detention center. Things for the most part where left the way they were found. Old papers sat in the desk drawer, cell chambers left ruminates of scratched messages. Newspaper articles where hung and poems could be found written on wall corners. In one room sat a TV a video of survivors and their stories replayed over and over again. Old stairs led to lightless basement chambers. And through an upstairs window the city could be seen. I could only imagine what it must have been like for the victims to look out that same window. While everything looked peaceful in the foreground an overwhelming sadness hung over the place. What really got me where the books families, loved ones, and friends had put together. Scrapbooks of victim’s life were full of photographs, notes, school papers, identification cards. Each told a story and at that point it was impossible to not to put a face to the 30,000 victims. Another room held old possessions an old electric scooter, records, a guitar, and clothing dating back to the 1970’s. Something about the dresses really stuck out at me as each was accompanied by a ticket of the person wearing it. Although I had read tons of books, watched documentaries, and had written the paper. A whole different emotion swept over me which reached a lot deeper than any story, book, or documentary.